


Draw me like one of your French Girls

by TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And then: Healthy Coping Mechanisms, M/M, Mycroft hides a secret in his bedroom, Mystrade Valentines Calendar 2018, Post-The Final Problem, TW: very brief allusion to suicide, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-24 04:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13802961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy/pseuds/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy
Summary: After Sherrinford, Mycroft can't cope. At all. When he finally emerges from his shell again, he encounters Greg in the last place he would expect...Written for the Mystrade Valentine's Calendar 2018!





	1. Chapter 1

The desk had been cleared, the files put away neatly. Every item was in its place, clean and meticulous, just as it should be. Even the drawers had been sorted, superfluous documents culled and properly disposed of. There had always been a certain calm contentedness that came with organising the office, Mycroft thought, but today it wouldn’t settle into his bones like it used to.

It was already dark outside the window, but Mycroft hadn’t looked at his watch for so long, he didn’t know the hour anymore. Darkness came early in winter and it never completely went away during the day. The building was silent around him, the thick windows kept out the street noise from below. But the silence didn’t appease him today. Maybe it would again, in time.

Mycroft stared down at the empty desk in front of him. In his mind, the dark leather surface of his desk pad divided itself into three regions, all glowing dangerously red. He eyed the first one: Sherrinford. The facility had been reformed with all new staff and security. Mycroft had taken himself out of the picture. His parents could now contact the island directly. He had no desire to interact with them in relation to Eurus ever again. His mother had made her stance clear. Quite clear, indeed. There was no need for a limited idiot in the equation. He mulled over every last detail regarding the safekeeping of his sister, but found nothing to be wanting. One region on his desk turned green in front of his mind’s eye.

The second one was easier. All pressing work matters and related information had been compiled into one handy dossier and sent to Lady Smallwood not an hour ago. She would be surprised, maybe shocked at some of the contents, but she’d also know what to do with them. Mycroft hadn’t been the last line of defense for his country for so long, only to neglect his duty now. But he couldn’t do it anymore. The second region faded into green.

The last one was the hardest: Sherlock. He had cancelled almost all personal surveillance on his brother in the aftermath of Sherrinford. Mycroft couldn’t bear even looking at a picture of his brother, the image of him pointing a gun at his head always present. He felt the hours he had spent locked up, not knowing if his indecisiveness had cost Sherlock his life, still deep inside his bones. The short time had ruined him more thoroughly than he had ever admitted - not even in front of his parents. No, most definitely not in front of his parents. He had attended their small reunion at Sherrinford once, had excused himself mere minutes into the performance, even the weight of being in the room was too much. But Sherlock was safe. Happy, even. His surveillance lay with Anthea now. Green, too.

He wiped away the mental image and rose from his chair. The topmost drawer was empty except for a sheet of paper and a loaded gun. Mycroft picked up the paper and put his signature at the bottom. This document would transfer his security clearance to Anthea. Loyal, brave, smart Anthea. She would do good. He knew it.

His hand lingered on the gun for longer than he was comfortable with.

Finally he closed the drawer and turned the key, locking away the weapon from his grasp. The small key weighed heavy in his hands. Mycroft turned to open the window and threw it before he could change his mind. The small piece of metal glinted once as it passed a street light in mid-air, then disappeared into the greenery. So that was done, then. The final decision. Too cowardly to draw a clean line, after all. Even though was nothing left for Mycroft Holmes. Not anymore.

He turned off the light and sat down in his armchair in front of the fireplace. Mycroft stared into the dark, empty hole, devoid of the warmth that it once held and found it mirrored the feeling inside his chest curiously well. He was still slightly nervous, but strangely content now, just looking ahead, motionless, slowly growing ever colder himself. He wasn’t needed anymore. Maybe he had been, once, but the time had passed. It had certainly never been his person that had been required, only ever his work. During the last weeks, since the incident at Sherrinford, while he had worked so hard to contain and smooth over everything, he had distanced himself from everyone on purpose. Had stopped meddling. Stopped his surveillance. Stopped communicating.

No one had even noticed.

A single tear rolled down Mycroft’s cheek, but he didn’t move to acknowledge it. He felt others follow it, falling silently as he sat motionless. The liquid slowly soaked into his shirt collar and he felt it grow colder still. But he also felt himself incapable of moving, even as his tears finally stopped and dried on his skin, sticky and uncomfortable.

Mycroft sat in the darkness until he slipped away into nothingness.

\---

As he woke, he didn’t open his eyes. The distinctive smell of the hospital made him feel sick, always had. Why was he here? The last thing he remembered was the darkness of his office and… Ah, yes. By that night he hadn’t eaten for at least a week. He had barely functioned as it was, and with the last stress falling from his shoulders, his body had let go. That would also explain the IV connected to his arm.

Pathetic. No. It didn’t matter what anyone thought now, did it? The doctors were paid not to comment. There was no one else. He had removed himself from this world.

Mycroft refused to move from the hospital for a month, even though he had been well enough after a few days. When he finally left, he moved into a new apartment because he couldn’t face the memories still haunting his own house. No one but Anthea had been allowed to see him and his new address was kept utterly secret as he had closed himself off from everything in the outside world. He didn’t watch any news, listen to the radio or read any newspaper. It was cowardly, he knew that well, but after Mycroft had withdrawn himself so thoroughly, he was deathly afraid to go back. And the longer he spent alone, the more he feared merely the thought of coming into contact with his old life.

He spent all days losing himself in his favourite historical and classic novels, even reached for the odd fantasy and science fiction. He put on old films, nonsensical comedy and lost himself for hours at a time. Everything that was as far removed from real life as he could possibly find, as inconsequential as possible. He barely left his bedroom now, the new apartment still alien to him, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did. No matter how much he read and no matter how much time passed, the hole in his chest was still there.

\---

Two weeks later, Mycroft put on proper clothes for the first time in what felt like forever, and sat on the barely used couch in the sitting room that still felt new to him. Anthea had talked him into letting a therapist into his new home. His instinctive reaction had been to refuse the help, but he didn’t feel like fighting anymore. So there they were. Lydia was actually a nice person. He found it strangely comforting to talk with someone who didn’t know him, didn’t have any opinions about him already. Someone who didn’t judge.

But when Lydia suggested he pick up some of his old hobbies to bring some structure back into his life, Mycroft couldn’t think of anything he had once liked to do but the drawing classes he had taken in university. A raised eyebrow was the only comment the therapist had expressed after Mycroft had told her that he hadn’t pursued recreational activities outside his job in over ten years. After a week of drawing furniture, Lydia had sent him to a life drawing class not far from his new home. He deliberated with himself for two days, but when the date came around he summoned all his remaining courage.

\---

The suits stared at him, daring Mycroft to dress the way he had once considered proper. He closed the door on them and opened a drawer instead. A little while later he was dressed in a pair of comfortable, dark grey cloth trousers, a white shirt and a muted purple jumper. He eyed himself in the mirror and shook his head. The purple was replaced by a dark green. That was better. He wouldn’t look good, had never looked good, but he would look decent.

It was only short walk to the rooms in a nearby university building, but it wasn’t the distance that worried him. It was the step he had to take outside his door. That first step, the decision to commit to this… whatever it turned out to be. When had he started being scared of other people? No, that wasn’t it. He was scared of being reminded of the past he had so eagerly left behind, of anything that could trigger a memory. Mycroft wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what he’d been doing, what was wrong with him. But the knowledge didn’t help him in the slightest. Never had.

He closed the door again and put his forehead against the wood. What was he trying to accomplish? Why had he agreed to this? So he could ‘get better’? So he could return to work eventually? Did anyone really need him to come back? While not the socially accepted option, he could very well stay inside this apartment for the rest of his life. And since when had Mycroft Holmes ever cared about what was socially accepted?

The room behind him lay in darkness as he looked back. It was inviting and repulsive at the same time. In that moment it seemed just as scary as the world outside the door. He opened it again and stood on the doorstep. In front of him was the world he left, and behind him was the escape he craved. Mycroft’s hand shook where he held onto the doorframe, his breath quickening as if he had broken into a run. He felt the tears coming, returning for the first time since that night where he had signed his life away.

But then he realised that it would always be like this, if he didn’t make that step now. He would have to live this moment over and over, and he couldn’t bear that thought. This was not who Mycroft Holmes was. He owed it to himself, and to no one else, to reclaim his life. How much of it? He wasn’t sure, but he would never know if he remained in that dark room.

With the unshed tears still blurring his vision, he stepped through the door and closed it behind him.

\---

This was a mistake. This was a huge mistake. Why was there another door?

Mycroft had slowly walked through the streets, keeping to himself as much as he could, hidden behind a thick scarf and a long coat. It hadn’t snowed that day, as it had for the last week, but he had brought his umbrella anyway, the weight a comforting feeling in his hand, grounding in a good way. The nearby university building, in which the life drawing class was held in the evening, had been all but deserted. He had passed a few students in the corridors, but no one had even spared him a second glance. It didn’t surprise him. He had lost almost 20 pounds over the last months, had turned gaunt, even more unattractive than he ever was. He was old now, balding, his face a mask of sadness, hadn’t even bothered to shave for weeks. He wouldn’t look at himself in the mirror anymore, so it was no wonder no one else would look at him.

He mulled these things over in his head as he stood in front of the classroom door. It was closed. Of course it was. The air in the corridor was chilly and the room would have to be heated for the model to be comfortable. Still, the closed door was something that made him want to turn away again. He was about to, when another person passed him and reached for the handle, opened it like it didn’t even matter and stepped inside. She turned around and held the door open.

“Can I help you? Are you here for the class?”

“Yes, I am,” Mycroft replied and felt his voice crack. He hadn’t spoken in days. Not since his therapist had visited. He cleared his throat once. “Apologies.”

“No worries. The cold gets us all in February. It has been exceptionally cold these last few days, hasn’t it?”

Mycroft nodded. He didn’t know by experience, but he had seen the signs on his walk. The woman smiled and waved him into the room. He followed with a slight hesitation, but he did follow. The woman was at a head smaller than him, almost as slight as he was. She was about 65 years old, with her long, white hair drawn up to a ponytail that swayed when she walked. As she slipped out of her coat, he laid eyes on the magnificent magenta dress she wore, a silver brooch in the form of a dragonfly on the front. She looked happy, settled, content. He felt a stinging sensation in his chest, but took her hand anyway, as she seemed to finally recognise who he was and graced him with a gentle smile.

“My name is Violet Taylor. I run this class. Lydia has told me you might be joining us today. I’m glad you could make it.”

“As am I, Mrs. Taylor,” Mycroft replied amicably, though he couldn’t bring himself to smile in response. She didn’t seem to mind.

“Please, call me Violet.”

“Then you should call me--”

“Mycroft! Mycroft Holmes, as I live and breathe!”

The addressed man froze. He could place the voice immediately. This wasn’t… this shouldn’t… He heard footsteps drawing closer, then walking around him and then his vision was filled with the sun. In front of him stood Gregory Lestrade, wearing exactly the broad, genuine smile Mycroft had always been drawn to, eyes bright and shining, a vision of pure happiness. He was laughing about something that Mycroft couldn’t place. He just stared at the man, a conflicting feeling bubbling up inside of him, the fear he had of his past catching up with him reaching for his throat, mixed with a grip around his heart. His breath threatened to desert him.

Then, in just a moment, everything faded as Greg’s arms wrapped around him and held him in a tight embrace. He felt a warmth seeping into him just from that brief touch and in response he felt something inside him break. Then Greg drew away.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to… Well, I wanted to, but… forget it. It’s just so good to see you! Where have you been? I tried to call you after… after, you know…”

Mycroft twitched.

“I don’t think this is the place,” he said, voice clipped.

“Yes, I agree. Sorry,” Greg added quickly and gave Violet a smile, who excused herself to give the two men their obviously needed space. “But why didn’t you… you dropped off the earth!”

“I wasn’t… I didn’t…” 

…want anyone to see me as broken as I am. Especially not you.

Greg smiled again, but this time it was not as bright as before. It was still warm, but it was tempered. Sad. Tinged with pity. Mycroft looked away immediately. This was what he had tried to avoid.

“It’s fine, Mycroft. You’re right, this isn’t a place for the past. I promise I won’t bring it up again. You look good, by the way.”

“You must be joking,” Mycroft huffed, still looking to the other side of the room.

“My mother once explained the difference between absolute statements and opinions to me,” Greg continued. “And that you should never express an absolute when you’re talking about your subjective view. Let me rephrase that then, if you don’t want to accept the general version: I think you look good. The beard suits you. Even though I still believe it’s a universal fact, as everyone in here will probably agree.”

Mycroft self consciously turned away even further. What a ridiculous notion.

“Sorry, Mycroft. Didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Just… yeah, me and my big mouth. Look, we’re starting soon. Talk to you in the break? Please?”

It was the please that made him look back. He faced Greg again, and he realised that the warmth in his gaze was still there, more than ever before. Had the inspector always looked at him like that? Mycroft didn’t know. He did not remember. It didn’t matter. He nodded despite himself. Greg seemed relieved. And then he turned away as Violet loudly asked everyone to take their seats.

Mycroft walked to an empty chair in a daze. This had clearly thrown him. Around him, the other people settled in, just as he automatically reached for the provided paper and various pencils, aligned them in front of him on the small table connected to the chair. He looked down, tried to collect himself. He had an hour of silence ahead. Drawing had always calmed him down and maybe it would help to recenter him before--

“Alright, our model tonight will again be Mr. Lestrade. We’ll start with four poses, 15 minutes each, then two for 10 minutes, and then we’ll take a break. Mr. Lestrade, are you ready?”

“Always.”

Mycroft looked up, and there he was: Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, completely in the nude. He could only see him from the back, and that was already enough to take all of his breath away. The broad lines of his back, the arms he was moving slowly to find a comfortable position to pose in, the curve of his…

He had to close his eyes. How in the world was Mycroft supposed to look at the man he had fancied for years and draw him like he was simply an unrelated model? He felt his ears grow hot. This had been a mistake, such a huge mistake. He could just leave. Run away back to his cave. He knew Greg would turn around eventually in his posing, and it wasn’t even about what would be revealed to Mycroft then... Greg also would be able to see the emotion on Mycroft’s face. He couldn’t hide it. After being alone for months, he had forgotten how he used to school his features. Mycroft took a deep breath. No, he wasn’t a coward. He was here to rekindle his love for drawing, and he would. Then he’d slip out like nothing had happened. Well, maybe a small coward, then.

He could only hope Greg wouldn’t notice the way he made Mycroft ache in a completely different way.

\---

“This is very good,” Violet whispered and pointed at a sketch in the corner of the paper. “I see you’ve started with some anatomy studies, rather than just going for the whole model directly. You’ve clearly had some training.”

Mycroft didn’t dare look up, lest Greg could see his face. The unfairly good looking man had turned around for his third pose and was currently presenting his body with all his assets and in all his glory to the side of the room that Mycroft had found himself in. Hence the extensive selection of leg and foot studies that now graced his paper next to a sizable amount of arms and hands.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I haven’t draw from life in decades, so I thought it might be best to brush up on the basics. That’s not wrong… is it?”

“Oh no, you’re free to approach this however you want. I just get the feeling I don’t actually have to teach you much.”

Mycroft hummed, taking the praise for what it was, for once not even thinking about slipping back into his old habit of refusing what was offered. His heart soaked up even the simplest positive words like a sponge. Violet walked over to another student, but Mycroft was still a bit lost in thought and made the mistake of looking up without thinking. He met Greg’s eyes, who must have been staring at him all along, and he found himself confronted with a gaze that felt even more intimate than the fact that the man was actually naked in front of him, so close he could probably touch him if he reached out. 

He quickly looked away before anyone else in the room could realise.

\---

“I didn’t know my feet were this attractive,” Greg laughed as he stood, bent over Mycroft’s shoulder, clad only in a robe that barely preserved his modesty during the short break. “Should’ve taken that job as a foot model rather than joining the police.”

Mycroft felt himself grin in response to Greg’s stupid joke. The feeling was surprising, not unwelcome. But he couldn’t find the ability in himself to respond in kind. Greg didn’t seem to mind. He continued to point out different parts of Mycroft’s sketches, commented on the differences to the others he’d seen so far, complimented him wherever he could. Mycroft responded in simple sentences, seldom longer than one or two words. But it seemed to be enough. True to his word, not once did the detective bring up the past in any way. With every minute that passed, Mycroft felt less on edge.

\---

“And because today is the 14th, we have some special props for the second half. Remember, we’re going to have a lot of quick, five minute poses now, so don’t spend too much time on the details.”

Mycroft felt more relaxed after the break, just enough to watch Violet hand Greg a bundle of plastic roses, much to the enjoyment of the room. He grinned and did a deep bow before moving into his pose with the roses in his arm, smiling down at the room, but the angle he had chosen put his line of sight directly at Mycroft. This time Mycroft didn’t shy away from his gaze and picked up the pencil to draw the model in front of him in full for the first time. That didn’t change the fact that his ears were still burning. Yes, it was uncomfortable, in a way, but the sensation blocked out all of Mycroft’s other fears, so he didn’t mind it as much as he probably should. For the first time in weeks lost himself not in the emptiness of his heart, but in a pleasurable distraction.

\---

Time passed quicker than it had any right to. Just as Mycroft started to actually enjoy himself, the class had ended. Greg was immediately drawn into conversation with some other students and Mycroft awkwardly tidied up his small workplace. As he stood and placed his drawings into the folder he had brought, he felt somehow like he had at his doorstep earlier that night. Everything in him screamed to go home as quickly as he could and avoid any additional chance of being thrust back into the life he feared. But as he glanced at Greg, at everything he had tried to avoid, he didn’t feel threatened. He had felt warm in his arms. And that was something he hadn’t felt in so long. 

Of course Greg wasn’t interested in him. He was kind, always, effortlessly kind. Probably couldn’t just leave Mycroft in his misery. Was it alright to take advantage of the man? Mycroft didn’t know. He didn’t feel like it was. The void in him was something that should trouble him alone. He made his choice and clutched the folder closely to his chest. At least he’d get to take these drawings and a memory home. He started to walk towards the exit.

“Mycroft!”

He hadn’t even taken two steps before Greg called out to him. He turned, surprise obvious on his face - he couldn’t hide it. Greg excused himself and walked over as quickly as he could, placed a hand on Mycroft’s arm when he had reached him. He held on like he feared Mycroft would disappear as soon as he let go, and there was a slight desperation to his expression.

“Would you wait for me until I change? I’d… I’d like… ” he actually faltered for a moment, but then caught himself. “No, I need to ask you something. Please, can you wait?”

As if Mycroft could ever deny these brown eyes anything.

“Alright.”

Greg’s face lit up like a sunrise.

“Don’t move. I’ll be right back. Please, just stay.”

Mycroft felt Greg squeeze his arm and then he was gone, retreating to the small room where he had left his clothes. Mycroft remained on the spot he had been left it. The fabric of his sleeve was still crumpled where Greg had held onto him, and he felt himself unable to move his arm and disturb this small display of… dared he call it affection?

He watched the other students get together around a small table in the corner, where they had put a coffee machine. Someone had brought cake. The conversation was muted, but lively. He had no desire to join them. He felt like he wouldn’t be able to utter a single sentence.

Greg emerged again in record time. He jumped out of the room, looking towards the door, the fear that Mycroft had disappeared within these few minutes evident on his face, but it changed into an expression of pure elation as he still saw him standing where he had left him. He quickly moved around to say goodbye to everyone else and shook Violet’s hand. Mycroft watched him move with ease between all those people, who adored him. Adored his simile and genuine joy. What he wouldn’t give to be able to bask in that light every day. 

Mycroft shook his head. No. That was dangerous. His chosen exile had made him starved for human contact, apparently, nothing else. There was no other explanation. Besides, hope only ever ended in disappointment.

But then Greg joined him again and he could almost feel him radiate with joy. It was infectious. He sighed. The man stood in front of him in dark jeans, black leather shoes and a grey jumper that seemed chosen to match his hair. Over everything he wore a leather jacket that seemed molded to his body, to every curve Mycroft had the privilege of seeing earlier. He was breathtaking.

“So, I wanted to ask you to dinner,” Greg said, nervousness apparent in his voice. “I’ve been… worried. I wanted to see you for a while, but I had no idea how to reach you. I want to… well, it don’t want to part just like this. Waste this chance.”

The inspector had never talked to Mycroft like this ever before. No one had talked to him like that in what seemed like forever. If ever. He didn’t even know how to reply. So he just nodded. He wouldn’t have done so a few hours ago, and he still didn’t want to share his time with people other than Greg. And Greg, in his kind understanding, didn’t push for words.

“Great. That’s great. Thank you. I know a good place around the corner, if you don’t mind walking a bit, where we could talk about anything but the past,” he said quickly, nervous smile, almost rambling. “Let me just get something so no one can misunderstand my intention, especially not you, if you know what I mean.”

Mycroft wondered what in the world Greg could want to pick up, but he knew his meaning immediately. His heart fell and he felt his earlier relaxation desert him, muscles already tensing up.

But then he watched Greg approach the middle of the room, where he had earlier posed so sure of himself, and pick up one of the plastic roses. He walked back and held it out to Mycroft, a sly smile on his face.

“Will you be my Valentine tonight?” he asked, his voice so full of love that Mycroft almost burst into tears.

Mycroft felt his own hand reach out automatically, involuntarily, and he took the rose from Greg’s hand, their fingers brushing past each other just barely, but it made the hairs on his arm stand up. He smiled despite himself and nodded again.

Greg slipped his arm into Mycroft’s before the other could even begin to change his mind and lead him from the room to the applause of the remaining students. But Mycroft couldn’t even hear them, he was lost in the feeling of the body at his side, the incredible presence of Gregory Lestrade.

As they walked down the corridor in silence, Mycroft realised that the small thing that had broken inside of him, when Greg had embraced him earlier, had not hurt him. It had, in fact, been the vessel, in which he had locked up the very warmth that he had been missing for so long. It now threatened to fill up the void that had firmly lodged itself within his chest. 

With all the courage he could muster, Mycroft drew Greg a little bit closer and dared to hope again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here‘s part 2... I couldn‘t let it go :)

The cold night air hit Mycroft like a wake-up call. He detached himself from Greg immediately, self-consciously taking a step away from the man as they emerged onto the street. There was no one around to see them, but Mycroft felt dreadfully exposed. He glanced at the inspector, looking for signs of annoyance, but Greg just smiled and put his hands in his coat pockets.

“Hmm… now what?” Greg sighed.

“Excuse me?” Mycroft frowned.

“I might have asked you to dinner, but it’s almost 9 and Valentine’s Day too. I don’t know if I can actually get us a proper table anywhere. Can you… work some of your magic here?”

Mycroft tensed.

“One of those cars that appear out of nowhere, a table that’s mysteriously free right when you need it? You know, one of these things you do?”

“... there’s no car,” Mycroft whispered, head lowered.

Now it was Greg’s turn to frown. He took a good look at Mycroft, who now avoided his gaze completely in favour of inspecting the stones in the pavement.

“Let’s call Anthea, then, and--”

“She wouldn’t appreciate that, I wager. Anthea is no longer my assistant.”

“You let her go?” Greg asked, no small measure of shock in his voice.

“Of course not. I’d be a fool to. She has… taken over my responsibilities. Someone has to make sure the country doesn’t fall.”

Mycroft glanced at Greg and saw understanding slowly dawning on his face, going through the implications of the revelation. He turned his head away again and watched a cab driving past. He didn’t want to see the moment when Greg realised the full extent of Mycroft’s fall from grace. The moment when he’d turn away in disgust and leave the once most powerful man in Britain alone once more.

“Alright then. Okay. We can just go to yours? Or would you prefer mine?”

Now there was a question for the ages. On one hand, Mycroft would have to admit his cowardly retreat from his own home if they went to his new rooms. On the other hand, he’d be so very deep in enemy territory in Greg’s flat. Anyone could come by and see him. There could be memory triggers… He’d have to make an ungraceful exit. But how to explain the new flat he had rented? The state it was in? What if Greg asked questions? He would, wouldn’t he? Why had he ever agreed to this? Was it too late to back out? What if--

All of a sudden, a pair of warm hands drew Mycroft in Greg’s arms, and he felt one of them settle on his back, the other gently pushing his head on Greg’s shoulder. Only now he realised how accelerated his own breath was, felt himself shaking against the solid weight of the other man’s body, the way his hands had clenched up into fists. Mycroft wanted to run, could’ve in fact bolted easily, but his body betrayed him by pressing itself ever further into Greg’s. His hands reached up and fisted the fabric of Greg’s jumper all on their own.

“Don’t be alarmed. You’re having a mild panic attack,” Greg said in a low, measured tone of voice, that seemed to seep right into Mycroft’s bones. He leaned his head against Mycroft’s in an effort to calm him. “Breathe with me now.”

For Mycroft, it seemed like it took forever to stop his hands from trembling. He concentrated on Greg’s steady breathing, tried to push all thoughts of shame and embarrassment out of his head. Here he was, panicking like an idiot in the street. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

When it was clear that Mycroft wouldn’t draw away, Greg put both arms around the man in what could only be called a loving embrace. A broken sigh escaped Mycroft’s lips and he let himself cry silently into the crook of Greg’s neck, his arms thrown around the man in turn.

“... so sorry,” Mycroft whispered. “I don’t know… “

“No, Mycroft, stop. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.”

“You couldn’t have known…”

Greg hummed. “That doesn’t make it better.”

He turned his head and pressed a gentle kiss above Mycroft’s ear, lips lingering for a few seconds. And instead of freezing up, all Mycroft could do was cling even closer to the other man.

“I haven’t touched another human in months, so I’m afraid you have to endure this right now,” Mycroft heard himself say with a confidence that he didn’t feel.

“I’ll stay with you as long as you need,” Greg answered and chuckled. “But we should probably go somewhere, where it’s warmer.”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “My new flat is just around the corner, if you’re amenable…”

“Brilliant. Lead the way.”

“Just a little bit longer…” Mycroft whispered and nosed Greg’s neck. He felt the other man shiver in response.

\---

For this first time since moving into the flat, Mycroft actually looked at it, wondering what someone else might think. He hadn’t expected to invite anyone in, ever. (With the therapist being the obvious exception, simply because he had refused to leave the rooms.) Not even Anthea had visited him, under Mycroft’s explicit orders. She hadn’t been happy, and had held contact regularly, but had honoured his wishes.

And now here was Gregory Lestrade, rogue element, in all the best and worst ways.

They walked past the guard at the door, took the elevator to the top floor. The building was certainly clean and presentable, but nothing impressive. Mycroft hadn’t cared about that. He hadn’t thought he’d ever see it from the outside, anyway. It was quiet too, which was one of his main requirements. The other tenants were people like him, with many more properties to choose from, and almost never in the building. They also didn’t know him, which was the most important thing.

He waved for Greg to go in ahead and locked the door behind them, taking much longer for the simple process than was strictly required. When Greg didn’t say anything, he turned around to look at the room in front of them with nervous eyes, taking it in, just like the inspector did. The front door opened directly into a large combined sitting room and kitchen of the loft, with a second floor gallery to one side - above the kitchen - and a window that took up the whole wall on the other. The flat was high enough to be able to see the London Eye shining in the distance, above the roofs. Everything was furnished in dark tones, tastefully chosen and arranged… just like in the pages of a glossy property magazine. There was absolutely no sign of anyone living in here, except a red mug that was situated on the kitchen island.

“Wow,” Greg finally said after he had walked over to the window and turned back to Mycroft, who was still debating with himself over whether he should turn on the lights, which would make the space look even more clinical. “You just moved in here?”

“I moved in about two months ago,” Mycroft responded quietly, aware of all the implications this brought.

He shrugged off his coat and scarf, and hung them next to Greg’s jacket. They made an interesting contrast. He looked back towards the man, who was still in front of the window, a striking silhouette against the light that shone in from the street. Mycroft hoped Greg wouldn’t mind the darkness, because he needed it right now.

“So, dinner, then? What do you have here?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft admitted, embarrassed. “I don‘t do the shopping and I haven’t actually eaten anything in three days, so I didn’t look yet…”

Greg did a little pause in his movements. He was obviously still trying to process all of this. Mycroft groaned. He couldn’t stand it anymore. If everything they did ended in an awkward confession and uncomfortable silence, he might as well get it all out in one piece. Everything else was frankly ridiculous. 

Mycroft walked past Greg into the sitting room and let himself fall down on the sofa with none of the grace he usually possessed. His head was soon in his hands and he sighed deeply.

“Would you kindly shut the door on your way out?” Mycroft said without looking up.

“Do you want me to go?” Greg asked, voice unsure, frown audible.

“Not as such. I’m just assuming you’ll want to in a few minutes, so I found it prudent to ask you before you storm out. But for now, sit. Listen.”

Greg dutifully took a seat next to Mycroft on the sofa. Through the movement of the soft cushion, Mycroft could conclude that the other man actually wanted to touch him, but drew back at the last moment. He couldn’t blame him. Best to get this over with.

“Gregory, it’s clear that you expect me to be a man I’m not. I’m nothing but an unemployed coward, who has gone into hiding because he can’t face the world anymore. There’s nothing left of the man you want to be your Valentine, all his power is gone. His life is gone. You’re sitting in my voluntary prison. It’s what I deserve after everything that happened. I don’t know why I brought you here, but it’s clearly been a mistake. Just forget about this and leave. Forget about me and continue with your life. Everyone else has.”

There was a long stretch of silence, in which neither of them moved. Finally, Mycroft couldn’t take it anymore and raised his head, but what he saw took his breath away in a way he had never expected. Greg was looking at him with tears flowing down his face.

“... Gregory?” he whispered, dumbfounded. The sight made his heart ache.

“Oh my god, Mycroft, I am so sorry. I should’ve never… I could’ve made more of an effort, I should’ve called you… Should‘ve been more persistent… Jesus… I… How can I ever…”

Mycroft almost forgot to breathe. He raised his hand and carefully brushed Greg’s tears from his cheek. Greg sobbed heavily and caught Mycroft’s hand in his, before bringing it to his lips.

“Gregory, this is clearly affecting you negatively. You really shouldn’t bother with me,” Mycroft replied, on the verge of tears himself.

“Please, stop it. You know you don’t mean it, the way you clutch my hand. No, don’t draw away. Let’s make a deal.”

“A deal?”

“We forget about this, have a nice dinner and see where this evening leads us. Just us. No talk about the past, no attempts to run away. Then, if you still want me to go, I will.”

Mycroft tried to see any lies in Greg’s words, but all his eyes projected were love and a healthy measure of worry. There was no deceit, and most importantly: no pity. So Mycroft nodded his assent.

“Oh god, thank you. Thank you so much.”

Greg surged forward and wrapped his arms around Mycroft, drawing him ever closer. Temporarily stunned, Mycroft soon responded in kind. They clung to each other like they were drowning, and fell back into the cushions of the sofa together. In a move more daring than anything Mycroft had done that day, he settled himself in Greg’s lap, head buried in the crook of his neck. They stayed like that for a long time, Greg softly stroking Mycroft’s hair, until he could feel that the other stopped trembling. Finally, Mycroft exhaled a very long breath and all but melted into Greg’s embrace.

“I’m sorry. I can’t just pretend,” Mycroft mumbled. “But I don’t want you to leave either.”

“Then we don’t. I was just a suggestion, because I really didn’t want to leave. We don’t have to follow any rules here. Are you content right now?”

Mycroft catalogued the feeling of Greg’s body pressed against him, held safely in his arms, a little cocoon of warmth in the flat that had never felt like home to him, and he found that he was, so he nodded.

“Then there doesn’t have to be more. I, for one, am absolutely fine with where I am right now. I care about you, and frankly I’m deliriously happy to have you in my arms right now, no matter the circumstances,” Greg whispered against the skin of Mycroft’s neck and pressed gentle kisses to it.

“Gregory?”

“Yes, gorgeous?”

Mycroft shivered. He blushed all the way to his hairline and felt 20 years younger in his shy embarrassment.

“Would you maybe… allow me to kiss you?”

“Oh god, yes please. Anywhere you like.”

Mycroft smiled at Greg’s grin. The first touch of their lips was tentative, almost cautious, but the gasp that Mycroft escaped made Greg press closer. They stayed like that, lips touching, unmoving, drinking in the intimate closeness.

“I never thought I’d be worthy of this,” Mycroft mumbled as they finally drew apart. “I’ve loved you for such a long time…”

Greg’s eyes widened, as did Mycroft’s as he realised what he had just admitted. His natural reaction was to bolt, but Greg seemed to know that and held him in place.

“You bastard!” Greg laughed. “You’re telling me we could’ve done this for years?”

“I… yes, I suppose so.”

“Alright, that’s it. I’m changing the plan. You’re coming with me.”

In a feat of strength Greg shouldn’t have been able to possess, he pushed himself and Mycroft upwards, then drew the other man into his arms to carry him like a princess.

“I assume the bedroom is this way,” he said and started walking.

“Oh god, please don’t… I haven’t…” Mycroft started, but Greg had already pushed open the door and switched on the light. “... cleaned up.”

What welcomed them was the exact opposite of the sitting room. The bedroom was a right mess. Books and dirty clothes everywhere, magazines distributed on the floor. Various electrical gadgets were charging next to the bed, cables drawn across the room with absolutely no regard for anyone, who’d want to walk through the place without falling. A big television directly at the foot end of the bed. There were even plates piled up on the various surfaces, clearly having been relinquished more than a few days ago. And worst of all: a plethora of empty plastic bottles and snack packaging filling up the gaps where there would otherwise be clean floor.

Greg almost let Mycroft fall to the ground, but could catch himself quickly enough to simply let the other gently glide out of his arms.

“Well, at least now I know where you’ve been all this time,” he said and laughed.

“Oh god, please kill me. Kill me now,” Mycroft had turned away, face hidden in his hands, flushed completely crimson.

“You’ve been having a good time, haven’t you?” Greg teased. “Doesn’t look like a prison to me from here.”

“I assure you that--”

“Shh, Mycroft, I’m only joking. Honestly, though, this is impressive. How--”

“I don’t have staff anymore. And I didn’t see the need to clean up a room no one else would ever see.”

“Well, then there’s only one thing I can do now.”

Mycroft quickly looked up and locked his eyes with Greg’s. “And what would that be?”

Greg stepped closer and put his mouth next to Mycroft’s ear. “I’ll have to bend you over the sofa instead.”

Mycroft shuddered and reached for Greg’s hand to draw him back out of the room. He felt anxious, insecure and very out of his depth. Everything that had happened that night made him want to scream and run. His new life, carefully cultivated, had been overturned in the span of only a few hours. There was no reason to this, only chaos and emotions. He was afraid… but also exhilarated. What did the world care about how Mycroft lead his life? If no one thought about him anymore, what would they care if he grasped this little flicker of happiness that had fallen into his path? Who was he trying to impress with his enforced isolation? Himself?

Screw this. Screw all of it. If Mycroft Holmes wanted something, he’d get it. And right now he wanted Greg. With all his body and with all his heart.

Maybe things would look different in the morning. But for now, Mycroft would hold onto the fire that was Gregory Lestrade as tightly as he could.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and thanks to Mottlemoth for organising the calender!
> 
> And if this is not the place to advertise, where else? If you enjoyed my writing, have a look at my book [Mycroft Holmes and the Adventure of the Desert Wind](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36145169-mycroft-holmes-and-the-adventure-of-the-desert-wind) here.


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